"There was a fine old man there in the bygone days," said Johann.
"And who was he?"
"Lord Fitzgerald, the British minister. He and Leopold were
close friends." Johann's investigating gaze went unrewarded. The
Englishman's face had resumed its expression of mild curiosity.
"Ah; a compatriot of mine," he said. Inwardly he mused: "This
guide is watching me; let him catch me if he can. His duchess? I
know far too much of her!"
"He was a millionaire, too," went on Johann.
"Well, we can't all be rich. Come."
They crossed the Strasse and traversed the walk at the side of
the palace enclosures. The Englishman aimlessly trailed his cane
along the green pickets of the fence till they ended in a stone
arch which rose high over the driveway. The gates were open, and
coming toward the two wanderers as they stood at the curb rolled
the royal barouche, on each side of which rode a mounted
cuirassier, sashed and helmeted. The Englishman, however, had
observed nothing; he was lost in some dream.
"Look, Herr!" cried Johann, rousing the other by a pull at the
sleeve. "Look!" Socialist though he claimed to be, Johann
touched his cap.
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